We were fast cars, back road racing,
kids with no missions
except the next good time
around the next curve or corner,
hell-bent angels,
flying with wings on fire.

We were a small town road show,
fast friends sharing life at 3-digit speeds,
and that wild man wild times bullet-proof
young man kind of living,
hell-bent angels,
just flying with wings on fire.

Eating life like a buffet
of crazy endless days
and never-ending roads,
daredevils laughing at it all,
hell-bent angels,
just flying with wings on fire.

And then one day we watched
as they put out your fire
and folded your wings,
heaven-bound angel,
too young to be
flying here no more.

Too young to be
flying on earth no more.

Without you I’d just be a falling star
with no tail lighting the sky,
a tiny dot in black heavens

Without you I’d be a southbound train
with no smokestack trail
rising in the sky behind me


Without you I’d have no music,
be still-dancing all alone
to no favorite song.

Without you I’d have no rememberies
filling cracks and crevices in my mind
and holes in my heart.

Without you, I’d be no me.

Once upon a time
I used to be me.  
I knew what I could do,
and what I wanted to be.

No one asked if I had dreams
so I began to think I shouldn’t,
and the life I wanted to have
began to look like one I couldn’t.

So I began that grow-up trip,
cutting away pieces of me,
a little at a time, so slowly
I never even noticed.

Every day, another piece
discarded in the far-back mind,
replaced with the new pieces
everyone said I had to find

And then one day, suddenly
I’ve passed through the grow-up route
and now I am this collection of pieces.
I don’t give a **** about.

But I can still remember,
once upon a time,
when I used to be me.

Lying here, in the sand,
under unseen stars
blanked by rain clouds,
amidst seaweed and sand *****,
and broken shells.

I am a piece of driftwood
tossed on the shore
by waves of a world
that cares not where I land,
or whether or not
I float back out to sea.

Sometimes we need to just let go -
We can’t forever be the man
hoping on the end of a rope
dangling over the river.

There is a need to let go –
people, memories, things.
Drop into the river.
Life doesn’t just stop.

There is only
Hello
    then
In Between
    and then
Goodbye

Another one in 2 rows
marches to the drumstick click.
2 rows of 3
carry one more soldier home.

A mother cries, maybe a wife,
listen to the drumstick click,
2 rows of 3
carry one more soldier home.

The young are pawns
and pay the price
of leaders in chambers
safely at home.

And so another, and another,
marches to the drumstick click.
2 rows of 3
carry one more soldier home.